Wilde, Jennifer (10 page)

"Like
what you see, wench?" he inquired.

"I—I
see a backwoods savage."

"Oh?
Probably smell one, too. Afraid we ain't got the refinement a lady like you's
accustomed to. Satin breeches, lace shirtfronts, perfumed handkerchiefs—we
haven't the time for such folderol. We're a crude rough lot over here."

"I've
noticed," I told him.

"You'll
soon get used to it," he said. He grinned. "Matter of fact, you'll
soon get to liking it. I'll see to that."

Those
warm brown eyes held mine, and all the while that boyish grin played on his
wide mouth. Jeff Rawlins exuded an aura of sexuality no woman could help
noticing. His raffish, amiable manner, his little-boy charm merely emphasized
it. One automatically thought about bodies and bedrooms. Against my will, I
acknowledged the attraction. Rawlins seemed to be reading my mind, and the grin
spread, his full lips turning up at the corners.

"I
always did have a fancy for red-haired women," he remarked. "I've got
a feelin' you're gonna bankrupt me, wench, but I reckon it'll be worth it.
Auction's about to begin. See you later."

He
gave me a friendly nod and then sauntered away, nimbly stepping over the rope
surrounding the area. Angie hurried over to me, her mouth wide open as she
watched him disappear into the crowd.

"Gawd,"
she exclaimed, "who was 'e?"

"His
name is Jeff Rawlins."

"I've
never seen anyone like 'im! Lord, just lookin' at 'im made me melt all over.
Any women able to curl up in bed with th' likes of 'im should thank 'er lucky
stars. Them eyes—" She shook her head. "Is 'e gonna bid for
you?"

"I
imagine so, Angie."

"Keep
your fingers crossed, luv. Let's 'ope 'e 'as a pile of gold."

"You
two," Coleman said harshly, "into the tent! The auction's gonna begin
in a minute, and I don't want the crowd gapin' at you two while I'm gettin' rid
of them dogs. You two are the prize goods, and I'm savin' you for last."

"I
think 'e's payin' us a compliment, Marietta. Fancy that. 'Ey, Coleman, just who
is
this Jeff Rawlins?"

"He's
a bloody whoremonger," Coleman retorted, "th' blackest villain in all
of Carolina. Murderin' rogue like that oughta be strung up. He probably will be
one day. I hope he buys you, Danver. I really hope he does."

Angie
and I stepped inside the tent, and a few minutes later the others were ordered
to gather up their belongings. Most of them were excited, making the best
impression possible in hopes of attracting the men. As they were led outside,
Martha Roberts moved as though in a trance, gripping her pitiful bundle of
clothes, clearly unaware of what was happening to her. I prayed she would find
a kind, sympathetic master.

Alone
in the tent now, Angie and I could hear the auction beginning. There were loud,
excited voices and raucous laughter. Coleman's voice was robust and encouraging
as he presented first one woman, then another, lauding her virtues, calling for
higher bids. Angie and I exchanged looks. She shook her head, and I could tell
that she was apprehensive and depressed, but she refused to give in to it. She
made a face, pushing a strand of silky blond hair from her temple.

"It's
in'uman, a-course, but—'ell, I reckon I'll be better off than I was back in
London, screwin' for pennies, diggin' in th' garbage bins for a scrap o' mouldy
bread. I'm 'opin' that 'usky farmer'll buy me. I'll 'ave 'im eatin' outta my
'and—"

"It's
going to be all right, Angie."

"I
ain't nothin' if not optimistic. I just 'ave to serve seven years. When that's
over I'll still be in my twenties. Both of us are goin' to do just fine,
Marietta. I can feel it in my bones."

Stepping
over to the large, broken mirror propped up against one of the tent poles, I
examined myself critically. My coppery-red hair fell in lustrous waves, and my
sapphire eyes were hard. Despite the patrician features, I looked exactly like
Meg Danver's daughter now, a wench created to serve ale in a barroom and tumble
in the hay with lusty males. My white blouse was the type Italian peasant women
wore, the short sleeves puffed, the neckline low, revealing half of my bosom.
My leaf-brown skirt was of coarse, heavy cotton, tightly belted at the waist
and cascading over several petticoats. I thought about my father, glad he
couldn't see me like this, knowing it would have been far better for me had
those years at Stanton Hall never occurred.

"Thinkin'
about that Rawlins fellow?" Angie asked.

"I—no,
I wasn't."

"For
a minute there you looked so—well,
'ard,
like you was mad at th' world.
Ain't no use grievin' about th' past, Marietta. It's over an' done with. It's
th' future what counts."

"You're
right, Angie." My voice was cold.

"Bearin'
a grudge against th' world—'ell, that don't do no good. Me, I learned that
years ago. It's just a waste-a time. I'm too busy lookin' out for Angie to look
back on what might uv been. You'd best devote all your energies to lookin' out
for Marietta, luv."

"I
intend to," I replied.

"Us,
we don't 'ave nothin' but our brains an' our bodies, 'an we 'ave to use both.
Think I liked sleepin' with that bleedin' sod on board ship? 'Ell no, but I
knew it was something I 'ad to do. Like you an' that 'andsome sailor. Men are
damned fools, Marietta, an' they're th' ones with all th' power. A woman 'as to
know 'ow to manipulate 'em."

Both
us of looked up as one of the guards stepped into the tent.

"You,"
he said, pointing at Angie. "He's ready for you. The others've already
been sold."

"I
guess this is it," Angie said. "You remember everythin' I said, luv.
Gawd, I hate partin'—"

Her
enormous brown eyes were suddenly filled with tears, and she grimaced, angry
with herself for displaying such weakness.

"Hurry
it up!" the guard called.

She
threw her arms around me and gave me a tight hug, and I clung to her, as moved
as she. She sobbed just once, and then she drew back, a wry resigned look on
her face. She stepped over to the corner of the tent to pick up the bulky blue
bundle that contained her personal belongings, and then she shook her head, her
lips turning up in a brave little smile.

"Well,
'ere goes, luv. Keep your fingers crossed for me. I'm gonna go out there an'
dazzle that bleedin' farmer till 'e's ready to spend 'is last penny on me. I— I
ain't gonna say goodbye. I 'ave a feelin' you an' I'll see each other again
someday—"

Angie
left with the guard, and I had never felt lonelier in my life. I had grown very
close to the scrappy, amoral little ragamuffin with her stoic outlook and
wicked tongue. I could hear them bidding for her, hear Coleman shouting
encouragement. I heard Angie, too. "Come on, luv, you can do better'n
that!"
she shouted, and the crowd roared with laughter. There was more bidding,
more laughter, and then the guard came for me and I picked up my bag and
followed him out into the brilliant sunlight.

I
climbed the steps up to the wooden platform and stood beside Coleman, setting
my bag down. An excited murmur ran through the crowd. "Marietta!"
Angie called. She was leaving with the husky young farmer, and she waved,
wreathed in smiles. I waved back, and then she and her new master disappeared
around the side of a tent. I was happy for her. Angie would get along nicely.
The young farmer would be putty in her hands.

"Biddin'
starts at two hundred on this 'un," Coleman announced. "It's a bit
steep, yeah, but take a good look at her. She ain't only one of th' most
fetchin' wenches you've ever seen, she's edge-acated as well. Speaks like a
bloomin' swell. Say somethin', Danver."

I
stood perfectly still, my chin held high, staring straight in front of me.
Coleman flushed, frustrated, but he was afraid to do anything about my
disobedience, perhaps because Jeff Rawlins was standing a few yards away.
Rawlins grinned.

"Two
hundred!" he called.

"Two
twenty," shouted a husky lout with shaggy black hair.

"Two
fifty," Rawlins said.

"Three
hundred," the shaggy-haired man called eagerly.

There
was a moment of silence, and then a cool, bored voice was heard. "One
thousand," the new bidder said.

"One
thousand!" Coleman was beside himself with glee. He received a hefty
percentage of every sale made. "One thousand pounds! That's more like
it."

"Too
steep for me," the husky man grumbled, stepping away from the platform.

"One
thousand—" Coleman said. "Going, going..."

"Eleven
hundred!" Rawlins called.

"Fifteen
hundred," the cool voice said.

Rawlins
turned with a frown, staring at his competitor. "Hawke, is it? Thought I
recognized that voice. What's got into you, fellow? You ain't got that kind of
money to toss around."

"Fifteen
hundred," the man repeated.

"Sixteen!"
Rawlins said quickly. "Come on, Derek, you don't really want the wench.
You got all kinda niggers on your place. What you need a gal like this
for?"

"Seventeen,"
Derek Hawke said calmly.

He
stepped forward, and people moved aside to make room for him as he approached
the front of the platform. As the two men confronted each other, people moved
back, clearing a space around them, and a hush fell over the crowd. The air
seemed to crackle with tension.

Derek
Hawke was even taller than Rawlins, long and lean and muscular. He was one of
the handsomest men I had ever seen, his features perfectly chiseled, with
strong and broad cheekbones. His windblown hair was black, his eyes gray, grim.
Dressed in high black knee boots, clinging black breeches, and a white linen
shirt with full sleeves gathered at the wrist, he looked like an aristocrat pirate,
icy, remote. Men would be instinctively wary of such a man, women automatically
fascinated. He gave Rawlins a curt nod. Rawlins responded with an amiable grin.

"I
aim to have the wench, Hawke," Rawlins said.

"So
do I," Hawke replied.

"Seventeen!"
Coleman cried. "Come on, gentlemen. Eighteen? Who's gonna make it
eighteen?"

"Eighteen!"
Rawlins called.

"Two
thousand," Hawke said.

"Two
thousand!" Rawlins protested. "That's all the money I have with me.
Come on, Hawke, be a sport. I have a terrible hankerin' for the girl. You don't
need her. You—"

"Twenty-one
hundred," Derek Hawke said coldly.

"You
son of a bitch," Rawlins muttered, though without malice.

"Twenty-one
hundred! Twenty-two? Anyone gonna go for twenty-two? Anyone? Rawlins? No? All
right, then. Going, going...
gone!
Sold to Mr. Derek Hawke for
twenty-one hundred pounds!"

Coleman
slammed his gravel. The crowd applauded. I picked up my bag and moved down the
steps to stand beside the man who had purchased me. Coleman joined us a moment
later, waiting patiently while Hawke counted out the money. Coleman pocketed
it, then gave Hawke the Articles of Indenture that officially made me his
property. Hawke folded it up and thrust it into his pocket without so much as
glancing at it. Jeff Rawlins lingered nearby, looking disappointed but,
ultimately, good-natured about his defeat. He extended his hand, and Hawke
shook it somewhat reluctantly.

"No
hard feelins, Derek," Rawlins said. "You got yourself a prize
there."

"Indeed,"
Hawke replied. His voice was cold.

"You
ever wanna get rid of her, you just let me know, mate. A wench like her—th'
bucks in New Orleans'd go outta their minds. If I'd had more money with
me—" He shook his head regretfully. "Oh, well, you can't win 'em all.
You takin' her back to Shadow Oaks?"

Hawke
nodded crisply. Rawlins muttered something unintelligible, shook his head
again, and strolled away. Hawke curled the fingers of his right hand around my
elbow, clasking me lightly but firmly.

"It's
a long drive back," he told me. "We'd better start at once. Come
along."

He
led me through the crowd toward the wagons at the end of the clearing. A
straw-haired lad with freckled cheeks was watching the horses. Hawke gave him a
coin, then helped me up onto the front seat of a rough wooden wagon with muddy
farm tools and bags of grain piled in back. Swinging up beside me with lithe
grace, he took the reins and clicked them. The two sturdy chestnuts began to
move away from the clearing. As we left, I saw a plump pleasant-looking woman
in a pink calico dress leading young Martha Roberts away from the clearing. Martha
moved as a blind person might, frequently stumbling, and the woman wrapped an
arm around the girl's waist, speaking to her in a gentle voice. I was relieved
to see that her new mistress would obviously care for the girl.

The
wagon creaked and groaned, wobbling from side to side as the wheels passed over
deep ruts in the road. We soon left the settlement behind and seemed to be
heading directly into the wilderness. The trees grew thick on either side of
the road, tangles of heavy underbrush twisted about their trunks. Birds cried
out shrilly. I had never seen such woods, wild, tangled, formidable. I kept
remembering what Angie had said about Indians, and, instinctively, I moved
closer to Hawke, unnerved by the gathering shadows. I imagined redskinned savages
lurking behind every trunk.